After the ball
by Lizella
Summary: The end? For this story: well, yes. But for a new-found family it is also another beginning!
1. They leave, we stay

Authors note: 1) This is my first Shrek fanfiction – so be gentle. 2) It takes place immediately after Shrek2 3) It is Queen Lillians point of view. 4) I am used to (and rather depressingly good at) writing drama or angst or tragedy. So this is probably the only "not funny" Shrek fanfiction. 5) The ships are definitely the same as in the films, meaning Lillian/Harold and Fiona/Shrek.

The party is over now. Finally! To me it seemed to have taken decades. True, I never have been a fan of festivities. Neither was Harold. When she was a child, we used to give parties (at daytime) for Fiona, but nowadays we have no reasons for wild, glamorous festivals. Except of course the marrriage of our only child.

Now that all the guests are gone, the castle seems strangely empty. No loud, chattering, distracting noises. I wonder if I could let my façade drop, just enough to cry. I think about my family, the only people I love. But is "people" really the suitable expression?

It is not as if I have got many prjudices. I tell them I do not mind.

But I do! I do mind that my only child, my beloved daugther, the only heir of our kingdom has willingly chosen to live as an ogre, being married to an ogre, isolated in a far away swamp. It may seem I lack caring for Fiona, because I let her be locked up alone in a tower at such a young age. But I did love her, every day, every second, I thought about her, I wondered how she was and I missed her. And when it all got too much I told myself about this being the only way to break the horrible curse. Now see how that turned out!

And I do mind that my husband has been changed back into a frog. All these years it had been easy to hide and forget about that fact. The only time we actually talked about it, was when we decided not to tell our daughter.

Unlike so many princesses I had married out of love. Now Harold might posess quite a lot of negative traits, like his hot temper, his secrecy and his bad judgement, which had only gotten worse with age, but he is a good and loyal husband as well as a caring father. Or rather was. I know the transformation has not changed his brain or heart, which makes it even harder.

How can I look at this small green toad with his beard, his crown and his soulfull brown eyes without seing my husband?

"Lillian" his voice pulls me out of my reverie. I look to my right, half-expecting him to stand there and frown at me. Which of course, he does not do! I look down to see the small frog sit on the floor. I hesitate. "I understand" he takes a sad hop away. Does he really? I scoop him up with my hands and settle him gently onto my lap. "You do know that I am sorry." I do.

"Are you mad at me?" "No" True enough, I am not. Actually it was rather brave what he did. I had never before considered Harold much of a hero. Only why should he pay so dearly for the only heroic deed in this life? Makes me not wonder any longer how come heroes are rare nowadays!

"Do you want something to eat?" I ask him. "No" "Anything else?" I know how awkward that question sounds and I do know the answer. "I want you to be happy." The honest reply catches me with surprise. Harold has never been much of a charmer. But there are times when his comments make me feel like the most beautiful, clever and beloved woman.

I smile just a bit as I stroke his wet back. "Do you think there might be a chance of cure?" his false hopefullness asks. "No" I feel bad, like the cold, hard realist I am.

"What you said earlier, was it true? Or was it just to keep on your façade in front of our daughter, our son-in-law and our kingdom? Could you really love me this way? Even if I am doomed to remain a frog for all time?" His voice holds that certain cynical tone he sometimes gets.

I look down at that green creature that watches me with his eyes. "I do love you" It would be so much easier if I didnt.

I yawn silently, a queens yawn. "You should go to bed" he suggests. I stare at the pretty double bed we have always shared. Again I think of all the queens who hide in their seperated bedrooms, trying to see the least possible of their husbands. They have often envied me. Not for Harold, most cant stand him, but for my love and devotion to him.

His brown eyes keep staring at our double bed too. He sighs "I will sleep on the chair" "No" I seem to say this certain word quite often tonight. He hopefully glances up at me. "You are still my husband" As if that were an argument. I place him onto the soft bedsheets and start undressing myself.

Breakfast the next morning is...awkward, even more, if that is possible, than the first. Harold sits on the table, where usually his seat would be and slurps his soup. Shrek simply stares at him. Fionas watchful gaze swings from her father to me and back.

"Ahem...Mom, Dad" she softly breaks the silence. "Yes, dear" I answer as if on cue. "We were wondering,...we thought about..." she stammers slightly. "We want to return to our swamp today" my direct, ogrig, son-in-law firmly states. Fiona shyly nods. "But only if it is fine with you? I mean, if you can manage?" I look at Harold. He sadly drops his gaze. I understand him. I feel the same way. But do we deserve any better? Our daughther leaves us in our despair just as we sent her away when she was a child. Even worse, she does not know it. Fiona still lives in her little fairy-tale world and believes there will be a happy end for everyone. How could we possibly destroy that?

"Of course, darling" Harold croaks. We rise from the table, I carry my husband. "We will visit as soon as we can" is just a phrase, however well-meant. I shake Shreks huge, green hand and he waves at my husband. Our daughter hugs me tightly and I lean into the familiar touch, knowing it will be the last in a long time. When she finally pulls away and faces her father a small tear escapes her eye. She never has been as good as me concerning self-control.

"Bye, dad" she runs her green fingers over his equally green back, then turns around. I watch them walk out of our castle, watch how the talkative donkey jumps into their direction with the "not-any-longer" assassian puss-in-boots riding on his back and watch how she once again walks out of our lives.

Next to my private "my husband is a frog" I also have the public "the king is a frog" problem to deal with. I know his brain has not suffered, the words, the plans, the ideas are still his, but he can not write letters or show himself in public any longer. Far-far away is not very tolerant, which might me partly our own fault – cut into our own flesh. At the party there was not much of a problem in the king "going" as frog. But as a permanents solution a "frog-king" seems to be out of question. So I will have to play the wise but cunning queen.

Still I can hear their talking. "Poor woman, husband a frog, daughter an ogre – how long will this kingdom survive." As long as I live! Giving up is not an option!

Authors second note: So? What do you think? I want to inspire everyone to pity the poor little frog-king. Not to mention his lovely queen. If they seem OOC, remember, they are under extreme circumstances. As am I! So do review! Thanks!


	2. The surprise visit

Authors note: I am back. So again thanks for reading and reviewing. Not surprisingly this chapter does not get any happier than the last one.

Need for a Disclaimer: Well, I do not own Queen Lillian or King Harold (neither as human nor as frog). I do however, own King Lance of Avalonea (though I am not keen on sharing my bed with him)

So this is how we live. Maybe "living" would be said too much. "Going on" is more like it.

Now that our daughter, her husband, donkey and puss-in-boots are gone, I find it strangely empty and silent. The only sound being the chatter of the servants. And I do know their gossip topic.

The days pass by oh so slowly and still half a year manages to go by. Harold and I seem to do a "living next to each other without meeting at the centre". Not willingly, I believe. Of course we talk, but lesser and only the essential. No physical touch possible any longer.

I find him getting more and more depressed. He has given up any hope of ever being human again. He sits at the same spot for hours, doing nothing but staring out of the window.

I find myself becoming cold and calculating. Indifferent towards the world and those I once loved. A good queen but a terrible person. I can not stand the woman I am turning into.

And one day a king comes along, king Lance of Avalonea, to be exact. And I simply can not believe it. Because this king Lance once was a friend of Harolds.

Now, he is not exactly "King Charming", although he really tries to be. He sits high on his black stallion at our front gate. Tall and muscular (well, physical traits Harold never possessed). Grey hair kept very short and tidy. No beard, in a vain attempt to appear younger. A dark red suit with the emblem of his kingdom, the sword Excalibur. His keen green eyes keep watching me as I approach him.

He is a widower. We were at the funeral when his beloved wife died far too early, five years ago. No children. No heir.

No wonder he feels lonely? I can understand that. I do too.

But I do wonder why he bows so charminly as I reach him. Why he keeps looking at me like this. Why he asks me how I was in that strange tone. But as soon as he compliments my looks, my beliefs are confirmed. I know now why he has come.

"You should guide him into the castle." says the queen.

"You should tell him to go and stay where the pepper grows." says Lillian.

I say neither and keep silent.

I do not want Harold to see him. But as I gaze at the window, I know: too late. The frog sits silently there and is watching us. How can I blame him?

Harold had always been jealous. A few men seemed to think me good-looking and clever, plus the unreachable kick of being the queen.

I, on the other hand, never had much reason for jealousy. Of course "king" and "power" and "money" are easily associated. But no other woman or girl ever fell for Harold as a person. Which of course was good for me (not that he would have given them in), but I never quite understood, why I should be the only one to see all the good traits he possessed.

I know Harold always was good at lip-reading. But I have nothing to hide.

What to do? I want to spare Harold the blame of Lance seing him "like this". But Lance, will not leave until he got the certain something he came here for, off his chest.

"Should we take a little walk, so you can tell me the reason for your surprising visit?" Of course he says "Yes" and swings off his horse. The last thing I see before Lance and I head into the forest is Harolds brown eyes following.

As Lance and I stroll through the forest my only hope is that this will be over soon. Thankfully I know him to be a rather straight-forward character, not one who circles for hours around the topic he is keen on. Being Lance he gets to the point after about five minutes of admiring "my" (he actually said so) kingdom.

"The reason I wanted to see you for was...well I thought that now we have both lost the partner we loved...(I detested the way he talked as if Harold was dead) and I have no heir to my kingdom...we always seemed to get along quite well (true enough, well on the few occasions we had met and the even fewer words we had spoken)...if we could just... share our sorrow." Wonderful, even more sorrow, as if Harold and I did not have enough of that.

"Lillian, would you like to marry me?" rather caught me a bit with surprise. No matter how straightforward he was, this was simply too much. But there was a second, no more than that, where I actually considered it. Where the queen told Lillian, that having a king to rule and keep together the kindom, even more, to enlargen it and have greater defences against enemies, was just what we needed. And I hated that part of myself for it. For even thinking this way!

"No" only the queen was able to make me say "I am sorry" because I was not. The last thing I saw before turning around and leaving was the stricken look on Lances face.

"How dare he?" my thoughts raged "How dare he ask for my hand in marriage, when he knows that I love my husband, when he knows my husband is still alive, although changed."

I reached the window in my bedroom just in time to watch Lance swing himself onto his great black stallion and ride off without looking back. Typically a king who had been hurt in his pride.

I sighed a sigh of relief and turned around to look at my own king whose pride had been hurt.


	3. Struggling onwards

Authors note: I dont own them. Sonja, this chapter is for you, because of rather urging me to write it. Hope you like it! The rest of you too, of course.

I want Harold to be raging mad. To shout and jump and be angry with me (or at least with Lance). To get all worked up over everything. To redden and behave like Rumpelstilzchen. To go on ranting about it forever. As he used to do. As he does not react any longer.

Instead he looks at me out of these brown eyes and I want to cry. I feel bad as I try to justify to myself that I did nothing wrong. Damned Lance! I cross my arms, trying to appear stern and in control. It does not work. I want to hold his gaze but have to drop my eyes looking at the polished stone floor instead.

Finally, after an eternity, he speaks. "What did Lance want?" Why does he ask? He knows the answer as much as I do. But it is so like him. Having to hear the truth no matter what. Keeping secrets to himself but always wanting to know all from the others.

"He asked me to marry him." Cold, hard fact. No need to talk about the bush.

"And what did you answer?" It hurts. I know it is his right to ask this question. But it still hurts. I think how a year ago he never would have asked such a thing. How far must we have grown apart, for him to doubt my devotion to him? How much have we changed? Of course things got worse with age, but 25 years of marriage were nothing in comparision with the last months.

I know I should reply "No, of course, what else." But I do not. Because his doubts do hurt me.

"What do you think I have answered?" Now he is in the process of interested floor-staring.

"I honestly do not know any longer." I tell myself not to cry, no tear will be shedded, not one.

"I told him to return to his castle, alone and better not come back to our kingdom." I heavily sit down on the bed. Suddenly I feel so tired of everything. I softly close my eyes.

Silence. "I would have understood, you know." What an interesting floor. My husband has just told me that he would have understood if I had went off with and married another man.

I rise. I turn and stare at him. "I never knew you thought that badly of me. Which kind of woman, of wife do you think I would be to do such a thing? Oh, my husband, the king of one kingdom has been turned into a frog, lets not face the problems but run off with another king instead and get my second kingdom. You tell me you understand, Harold. But you do not. And when you say such a thing I might believe you never have."

And for the first time in our marriage, it is I who furiously leaves our bedroom.

Riding has always cleared my mind. I saddle my white (typically princess) horse and gallop off into the forest. I do not know for how many hours I go on like this, trying not to think, not to feel, except for the wind in my hair, not to see, except the woods and the lake. But it does not help.

I return to the castle. I search for my husband. He is nowhere to be found. "Where is my husband?" I ask the servants. None of them know.

Again I take my horse and off we go. I am worried and I keep turning my head in search. An idea hits my mind. "No, not the lake, not the lake" I repeat the mantra to myself as I swiftly ride towards the lake.

There he sits, on a leaf in the middle of the lake, having removed the crown from his head. Two female frogs (I can tell by the way they keep on gossiping, gesturing towards my husband and laughing) are chatting on the shore. Brown eyes keep staring at me. "Leave me alone." He sulks. "No." He looks so out of place in the middle of that lake and still fits in so much more than into the castle. "You do not belong here." I assure him. He laughs dryly. I never thought a laugh could be so sad.

"Maybe not. But neither do I belong into that castle." He silently adds "And least I belong into our bed next to you." He has hit his lowest now. 25 years has he spent on creating an era of self-consciousness, of royality and ego, only to loose it all now.

"You are wrong." What else can I say? I look around the silent lake. Watch the two female frogs for once being quiet in order to watch and listen to us. "You cant really believe that this" I wave at the lake "is what you deserve, that these" I nod into the direction of the curious female frogs "are your life companions."

"I do not want your pity!" Of course I do pity him. "It is not pity, Harold. I love you. You do know that." I am not sure he actually believes my words. But all that matters at the moment is that he jumps off the leaf and swims towards the shore. I gather him up with my hands and we ride back to the castle.

Finally some happy news. It is almost too good to believe it! If I were less of a queen I would run. So I walk, to our main living room, very briskly. In my right hand I tightly clutch a postcard. On the front there is a photograph, showing the smiling faces of our daughter, her husband, puss-in-boots (with a pretty black cat at his side), donkey (also his dragon and the 5 already grown crossovers) and many other fairytale characters in the background (I spotted Pinocchio, the Gingerbread man, and the three little pigs gathered around the wolf). But I mostly was fascinated by Fionas stomach which had grown quite a lot and not due to too many sweets.

"Harold, we got a letter from Fiona, listen" I burst into the room. He looks up from the complaint letter he has been reading. Another one from Queen Snowwhite who tells him to move off the throne and let her husband reign instead, I can see at first sight. "You should not read those" I snatch up the letter and rip it apart. Not very noble, but try to be civil when you have already received 47 of the sort.

He frowns, but I am too happy to worry about it. "Now listen" I start reading the postcard aloud.

"Dear mom and dad; How are you doing? Shrek and I are fine. Puss has finally found himself the cat for life and donkey has turned into a devoted father. And Shrek will be one too, soon. I am pregnant, due on the 1st of July. I am hoping for a little girl, but I know Shrek is looking forward to a son (although he does not say so). We are so happy and I hope you are too. I promise to visit as soon as our baby is old enough to travel! Greetings from Shrek, donkey and puss-in-boots. Love, your daughter Fiona."

"Isnt it wonderful. We are going to become grandparents". I smiled. And for once Harold seems happy too.

Authors 2nd note: Am I not nice? For once I gave Lillian and Harold some reason to be happy (well at the end at least). But do not think: happy finally. Not to worry, It is going to become even more depressing. I got something very cruel planned. Sadistic me!


	4. An incident called death

Authors note: Yeah, devotion to my 3 favourite reviewers, who always praise my work (way too much by the way which is like oil down my throat). For you threesome, this chapter, where I own none of the characters, but still feel entitled to do with them as I please (meaning letting them suffer and killing them off).

It could all be so good. All of us could be so happy.

Harold and I could be devoted grandparents. Fiona and Shrek could be loving parents. Donkey and puss-in-boots could be caring uncles. This castle, this kindom, could stand open to the likes of our granddaughter. Everything could be simply perfect.

Except for the fact that our son-in-law is standing in front of the gate to our castle, only accompanied by donkey and puss-in-boots.

Except for the horrified and immensely sad expression in his brown eyes. They way tons of silent, shining, pearly tears cascade down his green face, run over his nose and drip onto the cold hard earth. How even donkey is quiet.

And puss-in-boots quietly hands me a small, wrapped-up bundle. Our granddaughter.

For a second I wonder how come she is so quiet. Until she opens her immensely deep brown eyes. It seems this brown is seeking to haunt me forever. She is so beautiful, perfect, soft skin, if green.

But my mind always runs in circles around my only question. "Where is our daughter?"

Until my world falls apart. One always expects a loud boom and bang, a star falling down from heaven, an thunderstorm or an earthquake. But the sun is shining brightly and warm at this July evening. And my world breaks silently, quiet, and almost unnoticed.

Shrek staggers to the carriage and with an un-ogre-like tenderness carries out the lifeless body of our daughter.

I stare at her dear green body in the pretty dark-green dress. At her still beautiful face, although it is deformed by pain. At her long, braided brown hair that softly strokes the ground beneath her. At her closed eyes that will never open again.

I want to scream. But no sound escapes my dried lips. I want to cry. But not a single tear leaves my glassed-over eyes.

I wish she were far away, safe in that damned swamp. I wish she would never intend on visiting us, maybe not even write. I wish she would hate and detest us, her parents. As long as she were alive. Which she is not.

"How?" I do not need to turn around to recognize the croak of a broken frog.

"The child" is all our now widowed, no longer son-in-law, says. Died when giving birth to a new life. Is there anything more cruel in this world?

"Come inside" I still play the part of the polite hostess.

"No" he declines harshly.

I see now how much he truly has cared for Fiona. How deeply he has loved her. Too late! It is all clearly written into his eyes.

He helplessly gestures towards his daughter, who I still cling onto, with both my arms. "Will you take care of her?"

And that is the moment when I realize what he really has come here for. Not that I think badly of him now. He surely was Fiona a good husband. And he could have been a kind and caring father to his daugther. But that was before she died. And he believes he can not be a single father. To be totally honest, I do not think he actually would be the ideal choice when it comes to taking care of a baby. But he is her father after all. I also do know that I am not better a choice. I have spent the last year fighting for the pieces that have remained of my kingdom, my marriage and my life. I am empty and tired.

And then Shrek comes, tells me my daughter is dead, shows me her immobile body, falls into despair, hands my granddaughter over to me and asks me to take care of her.

I notice how quiet it is, now not even the small bundle makes a sound. I turn towards my husband. He does neither move nor cry. All he does is keep staring at Fionas body as if the rest of the world were gone and only her corpse had remained. And in a way it had.

"Harold?" I hate to rip him out of his moment of reverie. He looks as if he just noticed my existance. "Of course we will take care of her." But he looks like he is beyond actually caring. "Even if in reality it should be her father who raises her." I flinch. As does Shrek. But he does not start arguing with Harold, as they did so nicely not so long ago, even if it seems like an eternity. "I can not" he does not try to justify himself, just a simple fact.

"Come inside and stay for tonight." Again it is me, the cold, hardened queen, who makes that suggestion. Shrek looks doubtful, like he wishes to be somewhere far away, in a land where Fiona lives and they are happy – with or without child. I understand. I wish I were there too.

"Tomorrow we can have her burial ceremony." I shiver. It can not be my husband, not her father, who states such cruel facts. But it is his voice, clipped and hurtful, beyond any try of being civilized or kind any longer.

Too much for Shrek. His temper has been on the rim for many days now and Harolds drop just let the kettle boil over. "You heartless creature, how can you say such a thing, so cold, so uncaring, you were her father, did you not hold any love for her at all,…" I try to silence him, without any visible effect.

Harold does not seem to react. He just sits there, gaze fixed on Shreks raging figure. But in his brown eyes I see a pain that splits me apart. Shrek will never understand how much Harold really loved Fiona.

None of us can bear to eat. Donkey and puss-in-boots quietly and without complaints head to the stables. Shrek forcefully closes the door behind the bedroom I have given to him. It is not Fionas old room, I have had it locked up, three times. I asked him if I could help, but he just stares at me. "Fiona looked so much like you" is the last thing he says before slamming the door in front of me.

I dread going to our bedroom, having to face Harold. I still hold the small child in my arms, I had not noticed until now. She is sleeping so peacefully, not knowing her mother ist dead, her father wants to give her away, not aware of her grandfather being a frog and her grandmother a lost queen.

How I wish I were her, just innocently sleeping the peaceful sleep of a child. Not having to worry about nightmares, the next day, or the following year.

I softly lay the child into the middle of our double bed. Harold hops next to her and watches her with a sad sort of interest. I gaze absent-mindedly out of the window, my thoughts swirling in endless circles, but always returning to the one topic, my dead daughter.

"Does she even have a name?" Harold asks and I swiftly return from my mind-wanderings. "Did her father even think about naming her?" And like a bucket of cold water down my back, I realise that he is right, that Shrek probably not even has thought of how to call our granddaughter.

"No, I do not think she does." At the same time I feel that the right to name her is not mine or Harolds. It should have been Fionas and Shreks. But Fiona is gone now and Shrek as good as.

I undress myself and slip into the left side of the bed. It all seems like a ritual to me. Like I never roll over onto the other side, still expecting Harold in human form lying there.

But today it is different. A small bundle lies to my right, breathing softly and regularily. I know a servant girl would be glad to take care of her, but I still want to feel and know that small body next to me. When she was small, I always insisted on Fiona lying in our bed with us. Harold always objected, although I know he never actually minded. Oh, Fiona!

And I finally can cry. At last I feel the wet path of a tear trickling down my face. And another. And one more, until they flow. My body shakes and I shiver. A small frog hops towards me and softly lays his head onto my cheek. My shaking fingers stroke his back, my eyes keep watching the small nameless girl. And I vow to myself that I will take care of her, nurture her, do everything to keep her safe and protect her.

"You know Shrek did not mean what he said to you earlier." I speak silently, so the child will not wake up. I still envy her deep sleep.

"He did mean exactly what he said." Harold firmly states. Silence. "And he is right about it. Partly at least." He turns his head away from me. "I should have been Fiona a better father. Should have told her more often how much she meant to me. Should have…"

"No." I can not watch him doing this to himself. "Harold, Fiona did know how much you loved her! And you could have done nothing to save her." My voice fails.

Before I have noticed, I have cried myself into sleep. With tear stains on my cheeks, right hand extended towards my nameless granddaughter, left hand wrapped around Harold.

I dream of Fiona, staring at me out of hollow, dead eyes, looking pale and ghost-like. "Why, mother. Why did you not help me? You could have saved me!" Her arms reach out to me, but I can not get close enough. No matter how hard I try, she always drifts further and further away from me. "Fiona" I cry out. But she is too far to reach. "Why?" she asks before she is gone.

Authors 2nd note: So, done that. What a hard (literally – poor Fiona) birth! I know I commited a crime – killing off a main character. Sorry about that. But you know, want hippy-happy stories? – Go somewhere else. Oh yes, and I finally own one of the characters, so the up-to-now nameless small daughter is mine. I already like her. She sleeps so much!


	5. One funeral and one nightly revealing

Authors note: Here I am extremely glad to be back again. I have suffered from immense Internet access problems (meaning I had none). So I wrote down some ideas on this story (some that might…ähm…raise the rating…or so). Unfortunately I will have to be very cruel once more. Actually I should be working on a french presentation right now. Oh well!

So once more thanks for reviewing!

And of course you are one of my 3 fav (if more review there will be more) reviewers, Sonja. I have to agree with you partly: when it comes to protection, Harold can no longer provide that for Lillian. Although in my regards she can pretty much take care of herself. Oh and I am not THAT evil as to let her kill herself, I think she can go through mostly everything. The thing about Lillian expressing more pain is that she seems like a very controlled woman to me and that she uses to hurt more on the inside.

As for Harold, I definitely do not intend on portraying him as a cruel person (although I think he can be an ass if he intends to), but he strikes me as being rather cynical. I know what he said hit home, that was my intent!

Spunkeygirl60: Thanks so much! You are quite right, I have been thinking of Shrek commiting suicide too, he is very emotionally unstable at the moment.

So that must have been the longest note ever, but I hope I answered some of your questions.

Now enough of the boring small-talk, on with the saddening stuff!

Oh and I invented a type of money for Far-Far Away, ever heard of "Stardollars"?

Morning dawns. A very sad and quiet breakfast passes. Shrek has been letting me know that he does not wish to eat this morning, through a servant. He only wishes to "get over with" the funeral as soon as possible and leave. I do not know where he is so keen on going. I can not imagine him staying alone at that awful silent swamp. I even tried to make him stay here in the castle, but he seems to be running away. How long will it take him to notice, that however fast he runs, Fionas death will always be quicker than him?

I let the servant girl return with the message that the funeral arrangements will be held at 10 oclock today morning. The sooner the better.

I sit at the royal table, Harold across from me, and force tiny pieces of food down my throat. All the while thinking "she will never eat again, she will never drink again, she will never love again, she will never live again". Silence seems like a sack of coals to me. Whoever said it was golden? I wish for someone to chatter loudly and innocently about every-day-things.

Even the small girl that sits on my lap is silent as I feed her with a baby bottle containing milk.

Fiona wanted to be burned when she died. She told me once. Even more insistent after she had transformed for life. Of course she never knew that her life would be over so soon. She never told me the reason for her wish. But I knew anyway. Fiona had, as every princess does, always wanted to be beautiful. And when she had willingly chosen to turn into an ogre, because of the love she felt for Shrek, she had wanted to be burned in order to finally receive some sort of beauty, after she had died. So we would do her bidding and spread her ashes into the sea. Never could I bear having an urne on the table, knowing my daughter was in there. How could she not have know how beautiful she truly had been?

Only Shrek, Harold and I were present at the funeral, a silent, sad, family funeral. Shrek went up to her silent body and gently kissed her blueish lips. I felt like an intruder. Then he lit the straw on which she was softly bedded. The servants were taking care of our granddaughter. I would not have wanted the small baby to have to watch her mothers funeral at such a tender age.

And then we stood there and watched. Terribly passive.

Shrek was walking up and down, circling the fire, restless and nervous. One might have thought that his only wish was to jump onto it and be united with his beloved again. He cried openly, not bothering about hiding his immense grief. Large, salty tears streamed down his face, he looke crumpled and lost. All the time he was shaking his right fist, as if to an unknown enemy, whom he could blame for his loss.

Harold was sitting on the grass. I could not bear holding him right now. I saw no movement in his body. He sat perfectly still and stared up at the burning corpse of his only child. Again his eyes betrayed him. The brown was spiked with pain. But I feared the way he seemed so impassive, so cold and uncaring. He seemed not to be my husband, but someone else, someone who had lost too much and was beyond feeling pain any longer. For I moment I thought if he would even notice if I left, through death or willingly. But a moment later I scolded myself for judging him that badly. He suffered, but in a way I could neither understand nor share. And he did it alone. Which forced me to suffer in loneliness too.

I could not bear to look at my daughters corpse that was nearly burnt in the madly raging fire, eating away all of her young body, her beautiful spirit gone. I kept staring at Shrek, at Harold, the earth, the sky, instead, anything that still was alive. I tried not to think, not to feel. A statue, I had to be a statue or I would break. But I felt guilt and anger and sadness and pain and loneliness and rage and hate and grief boil inside me like a volcano. I want to remain stone, but I feel way too much, I need to get it out. I look at my daughters ashes and the tears come, the fury comes and takes me away.

I know that I am about to do wrong as I saddly my white horse and leave the castle to ride onto the shadowy streets. Noone will recognize me, for I hide my face behind a dark black veil. Noone will notice that I am the queen, tonight.

I feel bad and my conscience mocks me. But there is this painful, enraging, endless ache inside me. This need for physical closeness. The want of forgetting and revelling only in this one moment. Of feeling something primitive, but real.

Never before have I been to the poisoned apple. As soon as I enter I do know why.

Slow, sad piano music can be heard and the deep, somehow melodious voice of Captain Hook. I watch him, another beaten and torn creature and I find myself pitying him rather than condamning the crimes he has commited.

"Which drink?" the booming voice of the evil stepsister asks me.

I want to turn around and leave. "Gin" I say instead. (S)he laughs at me as (s)he passes over a grainy glass of the demanded.

I never drink alcohol except for the occasional glass of red wine during festivities. I gulp the Gin down as quickly as possible. It tastes bitter and I instantly recognize that under normal circumstances I would never touch the stuff. My head starts spinning, but the wanted effect is given.

Better soon get it over with.

A young man is standing in the far right corner. His body is tall and muscular and if I cared about such facts he would have been good looking. His shoulder-length blonde hair gleams like wheat. Something about him is familiar, but I can not place him, through the veil, the Gin and the mask he wears.

"Are you interested in him?" the deep barkeepers voice asks me. (S)he has noticed my staring. "Pardon?" I ask, the queen breaking through. Again that humourless, dry laugh.

"He works for me. Poor puppy!" (s)he almost sounds pitiful "has not been the same after his terrible loss." I think she refers to the death of his wife. I can sympathize with that. "He needs some sort of income badly, not being used to any type of working himself." I begin to understand which sort of act he offers.

"How much?"

I detest the woman who asks this terrible question. I do not know her, she is neither the queen nor Lillian, but another, much darker part of my personality. A side that has thankfully been hiding until today.

"He is really good." (S)he grins broadly, showing her personal experiences. "Let us say 500 Stardollars."

I hesitate before laying the money onto the table. "He will come to room 6 upstairs in 10 minutes." She hands me the key. I walk up the stairs, step by step by step.

I know I am heading towards sin. I am not only a queen who fools the king, but much worse, I am a wife who betrays her husband.

Self-hate tries to nag on my conscience. Because not matter what, I still do love Harold. And what I am about to do is not only treachery on him, but also on my very own heart.

I close the door of the small chamber behind my back. He will be here soon. Again hesitation before I drop my modesty and I start undressing myself. When I turn around I can almost see Harold sitting on the bed. I keep checking that my veil is still perfectly in place.

Noone can know who I am. Not my reputation is what I fear for. But Harold does not deserve this shame in front of our whole kingdom.

My thoughts try to drift towards my daughters body again, as much as I try to think of something else. But before they get too depressing, the boy enters the room. I do not know what else to call him, since I do not know his name, probably never will and he seems not to be much older than Fiona was.

He does not speak. He simply looks at me, no sign of anything passes his face, his blue eyes remain distanced and emotionless. Much more of a professional that I had thought him to be.

Swift as a shadow he undresses and slides into the bed. I feel nervous, but it is nothing compared to my immense self-loathing. I demand him to lay under me.

Forget, simply forget and feel instead. That is what I try to do, as he pushes inside me. No kissing or touching nonsense beforehand. Harder, faster, with more power and force. But I still remember. Even now. It does not help, although I try. The boy is good, not doubt about that, but I do not care. A voice keeps whispering "whore, loveless wife, incompetent mother" inside my head.

"What are you doing here?" Lillian cries inside me. "Why are you torturing Fionas memory, Harold and yourself? Why? You know you love Harold." "Yes" I scream. "I do love him. But I need to feel. I need to" and I fall sideways onto the rumpled white sheets.

My tears finally flow freely now. But I have not noticed that my veil has been ripped off and reveals my face.

The boy stares at me out of huge blue eyes. "Your highness". He is perplex. He gives a small forced arrogant laugh, more of a chuckle.

"How long has it been" he is reminiscencing. "How happy both of us were then, although we did not see lucks true worth."

I expect him to use the knowledge of my personality against me, maybe to get more money or simply to tell my husband. But he does not. Instead he unexpectedly pulls off his own mask and shows me his young, well-known face. "Charming"


	6. Return as a ghost

Authors note: Oh my goodness! If I had known which kinds of reactions this would cause, I would have done it much earlier. No, honestly, there is about one half of my reviewers who tell me they liked the first four chapters and were shocked by the last one – and there is the other half who wants more of that "dark turn". All I can say to both of them is, that I had considered not posting that fifth chapter, but felt both, that I had to write and post it, I needed that for myself. And even you "constructive critics" will have to admit: it surely made things more interesting (if not to say complicated). Nothing gets you more comments than a little shocking display!

I keep staring at his face. How could I not have noticed, not have recognized? I must have been blind, not to know. But what good does it do me now?

Shame! Deep, hurtful and undeniable shame befalls me. It hurts more when someone who saw you in your glory, gets to know you in your downfall. I could have dealt better with any stranger, unknown and never seen again. But Charming knows who I once was, he has met the loyal queen who was devoted to and in love with her king, who deeply cared for her daughter and defended her kingdom. And he has seen, no even worse, felt what I am now, the wretched, desperate and lonely creature I have become, that monster who has been hiring him as a prostitute.

A deep urge to hide hits me, to crawl into a hole and never come out again. To be anywhere but here. I run to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. Then I quickly redress myself, I can not bare to look into the sink mirror. When I return to that damned room, I try to be the queen again.

Charming has had enough empathy to get dressed too. He cockily stands there and watches me. But he fails at hiding his change. He is miserable too. I remember Charming as an arrogant, too self-conscious young boy, wholey dependant on his mother, almost in an oedipus-kind of way. Since the death of the fairy-godmother, he seems to have grown up, not only has he turned to this kind of profession, but he also seems more serious, bitter even.

"Im sorry about Fiona. She was a nice girl." When I try to search for the honesty of his words in his dim blue eyes, I only find truth. He does not expect an answer. So I give none.

"I will not tell, you know." I guess my demeanor had been grateful then. And I somehow believe him. I open my purse and take out a hundred. He reaches out with his right hand. Then his eyes glaze over and he stops. "What for?" he asks bitterly "for the service or for me being quiet?" "From one haunted person to another" I answer. Again he chuckles dryly, but now he takes the money. I turn to leave.

"Will we meet again?" the little boy almost sounds hopeful, desperate for a face he had known in his prime, for a womanly voice that does not tell him how big he is, for a person that listens to him. For a moment I am tempted to a "yes". I never would have believed to actually like Charming one day, but I do. "No" I state firmly. "I am sorry" I hope he understands. "Goodbye" I open the door to leave, to run, to hide. "Goodbye Lillian" he quietly says.

"And did I promise you too much?" the bartender inquires. I do not answer. All these haunted, lost faces seem to gather around me, they do not seem evil any longer. I am part of them now.

"Tryin to hide from all the things I feel, but this pain is jus too real, it aint easy to be me" It hurts to know that noone has ever understood me better than Captain Hook. Suddenly he stands up and clonks towards me. His deep black eyes meet mine and I wonder if he is about to make some small-talk. "Poor lil girl. What are ya doin here? Ya dont belong. But neither do ya with them. Are ya lost?" I shiver. This man gives me goosebumps, knowing he is right.

I stumble out the door, feeling his black eyes in my back. I almost fall off my horse, still I try to ride as fast as I can. But where? I know I need to go back to the castle. Harold will question where I have been. And what will I answer? I want to tell him immediately and apologize. And I want to deny and cover up my shame. What shall I do? I cry again. Fiona, what shall I do? Help me? Tell me?

As soon as I pass the gate, Shrek comes towards me. What a sad, lost, little ogre he seems to be. After I have jumped off my horse he comes and envelopes me in a nearly bone-crushing hug. At that moment he is just an overgrown child, in need of comfort, of someone who tells him that everything will be alright. But I can not be that someone. Because I know that everything will not be alright.

"You are leaving?" A needless question that I ask. He simply nods as he lets go off me. "I just wanted to" he stares onto the fields, probably already wishing he was out there in the wilderness where he thinks he belongs. "…say goodbye." I can only imagine how this goodbye might be the last one. "You will take good care of Rose, wont you?" I almost smile faintly, he has decided to leave his daugther a name as a farewell-gift. "Of course." My voice is hoarse and husky. " Tell her" he sniffs "that her daddy loves her and that she is so pretty and" he breaks off. "Youll be her a good granny, I know" A granny, something I have never been before, it sounds so strange, when just a week ago I had been a mother, which I am not any longer, but instead a grandmother. "I will try my best" What else shall I do or say?

"No need to worry, Madam queen" puss-in-boots assures me "we will take good care of him. By my honour." "Sure we will, Ill let nothing happen to good, old Shrek!" donkey exclaims. I seem to watch for hours as my son-in-law slowly walks out of our kingdom, his faithful pets, no friends, to his left and right. "Take care of him, darling" I whisper towards the sky.

"Where have you been, Lillian?" the dreaded question. The only thing I fear even more is my answer to it. "Does it matter, Harold?" I know that trying to stall time is useless, if any given effect, than it only serves to make him angrier. But do I deserve less?

"Yes, it does! And do not tell me that you were at her place!" Her place – Fionas favourite spot throughout all of our kingdom – the old willow tree by the lake. "I have been there" he croaks. "I have been staring at that damned piece of firewood for two hours." I gulp. "Afterwards I told a servant to cut it down." A shiver runs down my spine, the coldness, the finality in his voice.

I remain silent. Through all the shame, the pain that eats away at me, the ache that twists my heart, the urge to yell, to scream, to fight, to cry.

"Maybe it is better if you do not tell me where you have been. Maybe I should not even want to know why you have been at the poisoned apple." It is not like Harold to slip like that. He has done and said it on purpose!

"You have been watching me." I know I deserve his distrust, but I can not help the feeling of anger that rises inside me. I remember the young man at the bar, who had been staring at me, why had I not recognized his face as that of one of our servants? "You had no right to do that!" I am a caged animal, trying to bite the fingers of the imprisoner who gets too close.

"I do have the right." The green face starts to redden. "I am your king and your husband." He quietens down a bit. "I was concerned when you left the funeral so abruptly." "Oh, you did not seem to care for any living person a lot at that time." But neither did I.

"How can you say that?" Dont you know that I," he turns around "no, I do not need to justify myself to you!" "And neither do I need your supervision" I retort. "If you want to protect me from reality, Harold, you have failed miserably." I storm off.

I almost run through the castle, like a haunted ghost, restless. In a room I find my granddaughter, a nurse softly laying her into the crib. She gestures me to be silent, little Rose is asleep. She looks so content, so peaceful, I feel even worse in her presence.

Finally I dare entering our bedroom. I want to apologize. I really mean to. He is sitting on the desk, staring at my crown that is placed there. "Harold, I" But when he turns towards me, I know his anger has not ceased to be. "Lillian" he sounds tired now "you can go out and sleep with the whole kingdom, if you want to, but do not come back into this room and tell me how much you love me." The breaking point.

"Maybe I should move into another room." I suggest, trying not to show my hurting heart, hiding it behind my icy voice. "I do not need a bed, anyways" he sounds bitter. He hops off and leaves the room.

Sin gnaws at me. Pain. A lonely aching. A need for comfort when there is none. The loss, the sadness. Today I have not only lost my daughter, as if that had not been enough, I feel like I have also lost my husband. All that remains is an empty, silent bedroom. I need voices, laughs, whispering, not this silence.

I think of taking my granddaughter to my room. My perfect, beautiful little Rose. But when I enter her room, she is still peacefully asleep. Harold is snoring on a chair next to her crib, looking like some obscure kind of toy. Suddenly I feel that I have no right to be here, that I am a stranger to my own family. Silently, not wanting to awaken them, I turn and leave, a ghost in my own castle.


	7. Wondering how it would be

Authors note: I am almost getting bored at saying thanks to my reviewers. I will still do it. To answer some questions: I have absolutely no idea how long this story is going to turn out in the end. But you and I will see. I am rather proud of it and it might remain my only Shrek fanfiction. And as you all encourage me so much, well, lets see what is to come. What else? Any questions – feel free to ask me. Oh and know what – during my last two chapters I somehow got fond of Captain Hook – just a statement, does not necessarily mean that he is to appear again. Thisis Lillians story after all! Oh and there is no happiness indeed in this chapter. But had you not expected that much? Okay, as a reread it – this is my personal, deprimating best – I do not want to have the "Werther-effect" on you – so please this is just a story written by a lunatic girl. Thanks!

All I wanted to do, was forget. To fall into the dark abyss of forgetfullness that is called sleep and not having to think about this day, or the one before, or the one before that. Oh what blessing it would be to simply wake up and find out that all had just been a bad dream. But that would never happen. I had always been a realist. But only reality could hurt you that much!

I tried to think of something happy, but the present looked at me out of dark and hopeless eyes. Not to mention the future, which could only get worse.

My daughter was dead. My son-in-law had run off to hide from the face of the world and possibly to rest in peace somewhere in a swamp. My husband hated me and, lets face it, he had every reason to. I even felt how far away my granddaughter was to me, unreachable, like a pure star.

All I still had to remember was the past. But were memories really worth living for?

The mirror seemed to mock me. It showed me an aging woman who had once been pretty, even beautiful. She still was tall and slender and her dress was exquisite. But her grey hair seemed lank and listless. Her forehead was wrinkled, her brows furrowed and around her mouth there was a sense of bitterness, lips pressed tightly and unmovingly together. Her face seemed hollow, ashen and her cheeks sunken in. And her eyes were dead, nothing more than two green spots with smaller black spots in them.

And it made me sad. Because I had known her once. Because she had been young and pretty and charming. A good listener and a kind, helpful woman. Because she had adored and loved her husband. Because she had cared for her kingdom and all the creatures that lived in it. Because she had been blessed with a wonderful daughter, even though she had given her up for the greater good.

And I hated her. Because I knew she had gone. And that she would never return again.

I stood beside myself as I watched how I smashed the mirror onto the floor. And it burst into hundreds of sharp, triangular pieces. What were seven years without luck to her?

I picked up one of the larger pieces. One of the sharp edges sliced into my hand. I dropped it and saw a small drop of blood come out of the wound. I did not actually feel the physical pain, only saw the dark-red liquid and hear the sound when the drop landed on the floor.

"How would it be?" I asked myself. A part of me was ashamed of it. I, the strong one, the independent woman, who had always enjoyed, or at least taken life as it was. I was thinking of suicide.

It would all simply end. No more worries. No more pain. No more feeling this loneliness.

An escape route. A way out of this mess.

But it was cowardly. And I knew that. And it was a sin, another one.

And despite all of my selfishness, I knew that I would hurt people. Well, not many of them, but the few who still mattered. No, I thought about it, only one left, it would hurt only one to whom I mattered.

Fiona was dead. Shrek was too absorbed in his self-pity, if he had not decided the commit what I was thinking about, already. And Rose was too small, she did not understand – and later she could not grieve for a grandmother she had not known.

It was because of Harold. Why did it always have to be for him? But it was. Even considering all of our differences, the deep split that lay in our relationship, the thought of possibly having lost him forever. He was the one that kept me alive and going, that gave me some sort of purpose, of meaning.

And there was my sense of responsibility. That had always been there. I could not simply leave my granddaughter with only her grandfather who happened to be a frog, as a family. And I could not leave my kingdom to a fate unknown, to the use and abuse of greedy, violent neighboring kings.

I lay the mirror splinter aside. The two things that make us human beings live: Responsibility and Love, made me keep going.

"Lillian" I swiftly turned around, although I would have recognized that croak anywhere. He looked at me out of these sad brown eyes and I knew my decision had been right.

Nervously I started to collect the mirror pieces. "Leave it." Harold ordered me. "The servants will clean it up." I stood up straightly. His tone got more soft, almost caring. "We should talk"


	8. The power of argument

Authoress note: (I am in a feministique mood today). Be eternally grateful, for this (I think quick now, but I am only halfway through as I write this, so we will see, update! Let me call it "the talk". There have been some questions and I would be really glad to answer them. As to things getting better – I am a very evil girl and mostly my stories tend to get only worse, but as to this one, well let us see. About Shrek appearing again – hard question indeed – he might, but I am not sure – although he certainly does love Rose a lot. As for how long this story is going to get – I have no idea. It may come to an end somewhen. Would you like it sooner or later? It might be rather later, actually. Oh and time to celebrate – the first time a story ever got me over the 30 reviews mark!

„You want to talk." the bitter, defeated voice of an old, careworn woman. But I had decided to live after all. And I knew that living was not simply a going on and eviting any sorts of conflicts. The decision I had made, included the explaination of my lies, meant that I would literally have to face the music.

But I had lived closed off from everything for so long, that I was not sure if I could open up again. And I did not know if it was possible, or worse, if I even wanted to, let Harold in again.

It was so silent. Deadly silent. A year ago, it would have been a mutual, comforting and loving silence. Now it was painful, unbearing and my only wish was for it to end soon.

The silence at last was broken with my harsh "Do you not have anything to say to your wife?"

"Are you still my wife, Lillian?" I wished for the silence to return again, it had been better than his cruel words. "You certainly do not behave like it."

"Oh and what would your wife behave like? Obedient and serving, without her own will, not capable of feeling pain or anger?" I was overdoing it, I knew.

"That is not what I meant!" he almost shouted, his green cheeks reddening, as his human ones had so often when he had gotten worked up over something. "I simply want my wife back." his voice had quietened down. Harold was the unchallenged master of mood-swings.

"Just the girl I fell in love with and the queen who told me that she would always love me.

Even when I was turned back into this" he looked down at his small green body "thing." He spat out. And the caring side of me longed to say that he was no thing, that he was a human being still, a man even.

But he spoke again before I could bring myself to it. "What has happened to you, Lillian?"

"To us" I corrected "it was not only me who has changed." He snorted "You think I forgot that?"

"No, Harold." How superficial did he think me to be. "I am saying that you have changed in character as well as I have. And that we have changed into different directions."

And I thought of all the princesses who were forced to marry a complete stranger, who silently cried to themselves in the night, when their posessive kings had finally fallen asleep.

But at that moment I envied them. They were free to secretly have their lovers. And they were spared this sort of talk, of feeling.

Partly I longed for a real row, a heated argument to finally get it over with. It would be so much easier than this slow painful estrangement.

"If I still was human, would things be different between us?" It was a useless question, one of those "what ifs" that only brought pain with the truth. I wanted to say something vague and less painful, like a "maybe". But if I lied again, I could never stop. "Yes"

"Do you miss my good-looking physics?" he was getting sarcastic now. But in a way I did. This was not about handsomeness. I was no fool, I was aware of the fact that Harold had never been an eyecatcher. One aspect of my personality I had always prouded myself with, was my lack of interest in the looks and only judgement of character.

I had fallen for his strengths, for his politeness, care, devotion, loyality, strong will. But I had just as well fallen for his faults, the short temper, the jealousy, the moods. And all of it seemed so long ago, like from another life, another time, and not mine.

But I still missed his human form. The king who had stood next to me in front of our kindgdom and the man who had been lying next to me at night. I missed the touch of his hand and the feeling of his lips on mine.

And I missed the warmth of him next to me. And all those bodily flaws of his, his shortness, his grey hair that had fallen out in strands, the lines that had become more and more on his face, even the weight he had been putting on.

The only feature I had to remind me of these, were the brown eyes that seemed to haunt me. It would have been so much easier if that frog did not have his eyes. I could leave him then, for death or freedom or some far away land. If it were not for those eyes. That was why I hated this brown, almost as much as I loved it.

"I do miss you, Harold." In so many ways, I did. "I miss you as well" he retorted, as if justifying himself. And I wondered if we would have to spend all eternity missing each other.

"Why were you trying to kill yourself?" The question hit home. "Why, Harold?" did he really understand so little? Was he really that cold-hearted and careless not to notice? "You should rather be asking, why I decided on NOT going through with it?" I had gotten louder now, unusually loud for calm, collected Lillian.

"Is that not the same?" In that second I hated him, he was so uncapable of seeing the obvious, of noticing what was going on around him. Too self-absorbed to care. Surely I had known, for in 40 years he had been looking into my eyes and refused or chosen not to see the pain that lay hidden within them.

"No, it is not!" this was leading into the argument, I had wished for not so long ago. But I was ot sure if I still wanted it. "Well, it was looking like you were about to slice your wrist with a mirror splinter, but maybe my froggy-eyes just deceived me."

"They have been deceiving you for at least 39 years as it seems to me." Whenever had I started shouting?

"Or else I might have noticed my wife going into omnious bordells to pay for young, handsome, blonde men." I wished he was a human so I could slap him right into his face. But as he was a frog, and my fury had taken over control, I hurled him against the wall. Mind me, not too brutal, I never wanted to get him killed or seriously hurt. But that comment had been a pure blinding pain in my heart.

There was a bright, blinding light in front of me, enveloping Harold. I had to close my eyes, to shield them from the whiteness. God, what had I done? I was even afraid to open them up again. What if he was dead? Could I have murdered my own husband?

"Lillian?" it was Harolds voice and it seemed like a mountain that fell from my heart. But something was, no not wrong, but different. His voice did not seem a croak any longer.

Could it really be? When you wish for something for a long time and then suddenly have the feeling that it might have come true, your first reaction is fear. I was afraid of opening my eyes and seeing that nothing had changed, that maybe a bloodied frog was lying on the floor.

Still I forced myself to open them, slowly first, but as soon as my vision got clearer, they shot open. On the floor was lying my husband, true that far. But not the one I had been living apart with for the last year, but the one I had slept next to for over 40. Harold was human again.

Authoress 2nd note: Where did that come from? Mad girl as I am, I wrote and suddenly this idea popped up and what did I do? I wrote it, no idea about the consequences. The only flash of thought was of what happened in the real frog king fairy tale. I simply love fairy tales!


	9. Back to days long gone

Authoress note: I know, I took my time this time. Sorry about that! School is just getting too much for me, but to lift my spirits up, only 4 months more until graduation and then sweet freedom! Anyway: of course things are not that easy, though it might help them, at least a bit. Can one ever have enough dead main characters in a fan fiction? And may I remind you that we only have one, at least in this story. So thanks for most of the reviewers. I guess I will be spared of commenting on "hi im cold"s review, because I do not like insulting people. My guess is, that what I write tends to be more for "older" people, too little sunshine in it. What I have been wondering is: Where has one of my dearest reviewers gone?

I will never know how long it actually took me to snap out of my reverie and return to the real world. To convince myself that I had not dreamt it all up.

"Harold" I finally managed to press out between my lips. I bent over him and helped him get up. I wondered at how natural it felt at that moment. "Are you okay?"

Possibly the most stupid question anyone could have asked, an awkward question and terribly out of place.

He seems dazed still, touches his robes and looks at his hands, as if he has comprehension problems. Then his gaze settles on me, the only part that has not changed back, that has remained with me all the time, his brown eyes.

"I know there is an argument to come and that both of us will have much to say and end up hurting each other again, but there is one thing I need to do, before this happens." And I wonder if this is the most mature sentence he has ever said.

Before I get a chance to reply, I feel his arms around me, the comfort and warmth that they provide. And I feel his lips pressed onto mine, with the pain and desperation only the lack of human contact for over a year, can drive a man to.

And for a moment, as I part my lips and feel his body against mine, I remember all of it, everything. I remember that I love him and why I love him and why I chose him and what he means to me. And how I missed his kiss.

In a second it will all be over, and we know it so both of us try to pour all our souls into this single kiss, it will have to undo so much wrong, to cover up so much suffering.

The kiss of my one and only true love, that awakes me from my deep and haunted sleep.

And at the same time, the hearty bite into the shining red apple, that will poison me to death a few minutes later.

When he finally pulls back his lips, I dread what has to come now. More of the harsh questioning, no doubt.

"I take it, you did not know I would return to my human form, if you threw me against the wall?" a question that is not a question. A question that is in reality an accusation. The accusation that I meant to hurt him, possibly even kill, harm him in any way.

"No, I did not." Why deny the obvious? "But, Harold" the desperate part of me wants him to understand, needs him to comprehend my actions, "I did not intend on killing you." How awful that sounds, how unwifely. "I was in a rage, I did not think." Sounds pathetic!

"Are our roles reversed now?" I silently have to agree with him "The cool-headed, logical, rational queen acts out of an impulse, while her easily-agitated, temperous husband has to ask her the necessary questions."

He has changed so much. How can a year transform a person like that. And still it is him.

"Then ask them, your questions." Now or never. I want to get it over with. Of course he does not reply now.

"I think that there are no questions left for us to ask. Why? is not a question with an answer. I can and will not pretend that all will be fine now. But what we have to say and, much more important, mean, are only three small words." I did not intend on dropping into teacher mode.

He nods, he seems to understand. Psychological force is necessary for him to say it, but he does "I am sorry."

And amazingly enough I find myself smiling slightly, a sad smile, but a smile nonetheless. "I am sorry as well."

But still it hurts. For all the higher and greater significance that apologizing tends to have, it were other three words that I had meant. He should have said "I love you."

A deafening silence falls over us, but it is not as bad as I had feared. Though the bridge might be burnt, the distance between our two worls is not too far to risk the try of a jump.

"Another family member still needs to see her grandfather in human form." I tell him and he follows me down the corridors to Roses room.

Somehow the small girl must know of the importances of the latest happenings and awakens, even as we enter very silently. She yawns adoringly and for whatever reason she giggles a bit and trains her eyes on her grandfather.

How come I feel not the least bit silly as I say "Rose, this is your grandpa, you know him as the green froggy." I lift her up and she drools onto my dress. I do not mind.

"Do you want to hold her?" I ask Harold and I feel as if taken back 20 years in time.

He nods and I lay her into his arms. He holds her somewhat awkwardly, not having had to do with babies for 18 years. Rose giggles at him and pulls at his beard with her small green fingers. Again I smile, and strange as it feels, I believe I could get used to it again.

For an instance we are a family, a strange and hurt one, one with a past that has marked us, but still a family. And I wish Shrek were here, as it is his family just as much as ours.

Authoress: Okay, short I know, but this seems so much like the end of a chapter, that I simply have to post it now. I guess it will just be one more chapter now. But I have one wish before the end of this fic comes: I dream of breaking the 50 reviews mark – care to help me?


	10. The returning

Authoress final note: This is it. The last chapter to this story. I hope all of you enjoyed the ride, as you did not jump off! I love you all! My final parting wish: I need to cross that 50 reviews mark! Come on, I just need 7 more and I got it. Do it for me! Thanks!

Notes: To Rebecca: Thanks! The thing with the wall, as you call it, is in reality the original "Frog Prince" story, the princess does not kiss the frog (she is much to disgusted with that) and when he demands that she let him sleep in her bed she is so angry as to throw him against the wall and he gets transformed into the human prince again. Explaination: I love fairy tales and I proud myself to have quite a knowledge of them!

There are situations in which there is no need to speak and only acts are needed. When the communication between two people functions perfectly without a word.

This was not one of these moments.

It was one of those where days and weeks of talking were long overdue and still both of us stayed silent. Where actions should be taken with careful consideration and precaution only.

And still it only took minutes for us to get to our bedchamber. I pulled the needle out of my hair and let it flow down my back. "Would you help me with the dress?" I asked and was almost shocked at finding that it sounded more like a purr. "Cant you do it yourself?" So much for my romantic husband!

I was standing at the window, my back to him and undressed myself not even knowing why I was doing this. "Sleeping with him will not solve your problems!" a voice whispered in my head.

When I had finished and turned towards him, he scrutinized me like some foreign sculpture. "You are beautiful" he stuttered and then more silent "I almost have forgotten how much."

When we made love, I felt like a young giddy girl (the one I had never been), eager and desperate at the same time. There was a certain feeling of pride in me: this is my husband, mine and I love him and it will all work out, it will. Only the "I hope" kept poppping up!

A glimpse of Charming shot through my mind, but it was no comparison. There was more to loving, that simply making love. Oh how easy it would be otherwise!

Afterwards I felt unexplainably sad, without really knowing why. I kept touching Harold, as if to convince myself that he was really here, as a human, lying next to me.

"I have missed you so much" I whisper into his ear and the long-backheld sobs try to escape. He wipes away one of my tears with this fingers. "I never thought I would ever be feeling this again." How wonderful his voice sounds without the croaking.

"I wish Shrek was here. His daughter needs him" my voice is hoarse. "I wish Fiona was with us." Harold says and the honesty is written within his eyes.

We both notice the star that passes our window, a star falling from the sky. The pessimist would say that someone has died tonight and his soul is now on the way to god. But the optimist would smile and make a wish.

Now wishes can not bring dead back from the grave. They can not revive my lovely girl. But they might lead a father back from his ways astray to finally take a place in his family, to raise and love his daughter.

I have always been a rational woman, trusting my mind more than my heart. But wishing is something I am still capable of, as is dreaming and hoping.

Suddenly Rose starts screeching and I jump out of the bed. Rose is such a quiet girl and her sudden squeals make my heart tighten in fear. What has happened? Harold frowns, but hurries out of bed as well.

I try analyzing the shrieks on my run to Roses room and discover them to be sqeals of happiness instead of pain. But why?

When I reach her bed, she smiles adoringly at me but her eyes look out the window and when I turn around, I hold my breath.

A sight like the three musketeers, a grey usually overjoyed and talkative Porthos and a fit for dueling with a spanish accent Aramis, who march to the right and to the left of their grieving Athos who has returned at last.

Harold shuffles in and pantingly asks "What happened?" Following my smile, he discovers the three figures outside. "Wishes do seem to come true!" he wonders, before I take Rose into my arms and we hurry to the main door to let in the returned.

"It is so good to see you!" "Hey, where did the frog hop?" "I live to serve your majesty" and "Welcome back." All meet in the middle of the parc.

Shrek looks like he has gone through hell during the time he was away. I dare not ask him, where he was and what he did. I feel quite grateful towards donkey und puss who seem to have not only taken care of him as good as they could, but have also proved to be true and honest friends. But he is here now, alive and more-or-less intact.

Shrek never takes his sad eyes off his daughter. "May I hold her?" are the first words he speaks to us and I understand. I give him the joyful bundle.

Rose seems to know quite well that this is her father, as she shows no fear, gives him a bright smile and taps onto his nose with her small fingers.

Shrek smiles through tears "So much like your mother" he whispers and I hang my head.

This is where we stand, what we are and what is to become of us.

A madly grinning donkey, who tries clapping with his hind legs, but suceeds only with falling ungracefully onto his own bottom, which does not stop his obvious happiness.

An adoring little puss, only part-time assasian, who had climbed onto Shreks shoulder so he can regard the little girl out of huge kitty-eyes.

A baby ogre girl, unaware of the world and its cruelities, half-orphan, who plays with her fathers nose.

A widowed ogre, grief and sadness of mourning written into his heart, but a small smile at regarding his daughter steals itself onto his face.

A king who used to be a frog and will continue to be my husband, who watches as if he was an outsider, until I take his hand and kiss him.

A queen, a wife and a grandmother who wants nothing more than to suceed in those areas of her life and try to find some happiness in the short span of time that is given to us. Even if it is only one single happy moment, that belongs only to her. And if she is willing to, she can share it with those she loves.

And she does love them. These are not creatures gathered in a court to meet by chance. This is a family, destined to belong to each other for all eternity!


End file.
